


The Diogenes Club

by Prochytes



Category: Sherlock (TV), Torchwood
Genre: Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-27
Updated: 2011-07-27
Packaged: 2017-10-21 19:49:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/229084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prochytes/pseuds/Prochytes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes you want to go where nobody knows your name.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Diogenes Club

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for Sherlock 1x01 “A Study in Pink” and Torchwood to the end of S3. Indebted to “The Adventure of the Greek Interpreter”. Originally posted on LJ in 2011.

“There are seven,” said the man with the umbrella. “Viable exits from this warehouse, that is. I know you’re counting. And you’re quite correct to think that... Who are we today, my dear?”

 

“Alice,” said the woman with the BlackBerry.

 

“... that Alice presents by far the greater physical threat, which is why you’re pretending to look at me and watching her. So far you live up to your colourful reputation, Gwen. This may change, of course, once you open your mouth.”

 

Gwen took a deep breath. “Either your PA’s brought me to the crappiest rave in history, or you want something. I’d appreciate knowing what that is.”

 

“The despatch of certain trifling tasks. That is all. Tasks fitted to one with your unusual set of skills.”

 

“I’m being headhunted?”

 

He sighed. “‘Headhunting’ has such an anthropological ring. I prefer to think of this as ‘free-cycling’.”

 

“You do, do you?” Gwen took a step forward. Alice, she noticed, did not obviously tense up. Girl was good. “Torchwood is dead. HMG did a bang-up job of killing it. And in case you haven’t noticed, I’m retired.”

 

“I know. I’ve seen the cottage. Very _bijou_. Yet early retirement can throw up such unanticipated difficulties.”

 

“Are you threatening me?”

 

“Not I, Gwen. You acquired a fine pack of enemies at the Hub, whom you’ve done a tolerably good job of throwing off your scent. But with my assistance, you could do a better.”

 

“I can protect myself.”

 

He smiled thinly, and inclined his head. “I’ve read the files, Gwen. Your ability to protect _yourself_ is not at issue.”

 

She bit her lip, and reached a decision. “Tell me about your trifling tasks.”

 

***

 

Gwen did not speak Greek. She therefore had no way of knowing whether the tongue of Homer, Cavafy, and Seferis had ever found a word for “clusterfuck”.

 

Sophy and Paul Kratides were the kidnapped scions of an old Athenian shipping family. So many people were looking for them that they all managed to get in each other’s way. The thunder of the cavalry’s hooves had spooked the kidnappers. By the time Gwen herself reached the house, it was too late.

 

Gwen loitered nearby, impersonating a City girl on her lunch-break, as the Met carried out the brother’s body. She saw a taxi draw up, and disgorge two men. The taller of the two wove his way through the world with the bored precision of a grown-up negotiating a carousel. The shorter one limped when he remembered.

 

Gwen was still contemplating the provenance of the pair (Special Branch? MI6? God help us all, if UNIT was diversifying), when the tall man glanced in her direction. And then she knew beyond a doubt who sent them, because that glance laid all her secrets bare. She thought of the Hub, revealed and broken, supine beneath the affronted stars. The tall man smirked at her, and turned away.

 

His companion had a strange look on his face. Intent – fascinated, even – yet also ashamed. Gwen wondered why that look was so familiar.

 

***

 

The next set of intel on the kidnappers was much better. Gwen could hazard a guess as to who was ultimately responsible for supplying it.

 

Harold Latimer was a big bastard in a suit. He had large muscles, slow reflexes, and a misplaced faith in the efficacy of nightsticks.

 

Wilson Kemp was a smaller, older man. He had sallow skin, and one of those desultory little beards, which twitched like nobody’s business when he was shitting himself.

 

Maybe it had twitched when he wasn’t shitting himself, too. Gwen lacked the data for an adequate analysis.

 

 

***

 

“I see that Ms Kratides was unharmed.” His long pale fingers snapped the pocketbook shut. “Well done.”

 

“Yes, she was. And I’m out.”

 

He tilted his head in her direction. “Really? I shall be most surprised if that turns out to be the case.”

 

“I don’t need your protection.”

 

“That’s probably true. But protection was never truly what you needed.”

 

“What the bloody hell do you mean by that?”

 

His smile was bland, unruffled. “You won’t stop, Gwen. You can’t. Because you’re another one who needs the war.”

 

“Another one?”

 

“Oh yes. But I wouldn’t waste your ingenuity in speculating on the others in this arrangement. No member is permitted to take the least notice of any other one.”

 

Gwen imagined those long pale fingers, flicking through another book. On every spread of the book was blazoned a creature. Each reared alone on its pages, unaware of what came before or after. A Bestiary of Useful Monsters. She moistened her lips.

 

“How many of us are there? At least you can tell me that.”

 

“Rest easy, my dear Ms Cooper.” The umbrella clicked on the floor as he walked away. “You are always alone, in the Diogenes Club.”

 

FINIS

 

 

 


End file.
